


As in an Empty Station

by DoreyG



Series: On the Clock [1]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Community: comment_fic, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Past Abuse, Past Domestic Violence, Relationship Negotiation, Soulmate-Identifying Timers, Soulmates, Wow this is such a happy fic, false names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 06:22:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3599592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John. As in John Doe. It is, not to put too fine a point on it, the worst attempt at a fake name that he’s ever witnessed. Yet another thing that he finds curiously inclined to let slide, as he leans back in his chair and taps his fingers against the table, “Alright, John. I’ll allow you your secrets.”</p>
<p>“<i>Thank you</i>.”</p>
<p>“For now.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	As in an Empty Station

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scathach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scathach/gifts).



The kid is younger than he expected him to be. Narrow and bony, with full cheeks and a certain glint – even through the obvious and overriding wariness – in his eye that speaks of somebody _new_ to this. He slides through the crowd, the usual scum, with an expression that speaks volumes about doubt and regret and sheer confusion. It is, not to put too fine a point on it, _adorable_.

He allows himself a smile for half a second, an unaccountably long stretch of time that he blames entirely upon the boy before him, and then hides it. Stands up, and waves him over with the kind of casual arrogance that only he can manage.

“Snart,” some of his partners, over the years, have found that attractive. The boy, young and flush with justice as he is, only looks slightly ill – comes to settle in the offered chair in a way that suggests he’s about to dart away at the slightest provocation, “I didn’t expect you to contact me.”

“Streak,” he answers smoothly, somewhat amused, and watches the flush rise high on the kid’s cheeks. What a _sweetheart_ , far too innocent and virginal for this profession, “I didn’t expect you to _come_.”

“Don’t _call_ me that,” far too innocent and virginal for _him_ , as a matter of fact. But he’s willing to let that go. Just for now, just in favour of watching the kid dart a quick glance around and hunker down to the table like he’s in some sort of war council, “look, if you have to call me anything call me… Call me John, alright? I’m trying to keep this a _secret_.”

John. As in John Doe. It is, not to put too fine a point on it, the worst attempt at a fake name that he’s ever witnessed. Yet another thing that he finds curiously inclined to let slide, as he leans back in his chair and taps his fingers against the table, “Alright, John. I’ll allow you your secrets.”

“ _Thank you_.”

“For now.”

The boy, currently John, stares at him – colour still high upon his cheeks. He only smiles in return, keeps drumming his fingers under that ever so intense gaze… As a result, it is a surprise when the kid defiantly opens his mouth and speaks again. He never thought that the darling boy had it in him, “why did you want to see me, Snart?”

A surprise, but not an insurmountable one. In his experience, _with_ his experience, very few surprises are shocking enough to take him out of the game altogether, “to clear the air, hammer out certain details that’d be beneficial to the both of us. It might seem odd, considering our last meeting, but what I really want is a nice little _chat_. An opportunity to air our feelings in a constructive manner.”

“You don’t want to know my feelings,” John says bluntly. And, yet again, he is surprised – it feels a lot more pleasant than he ever thought it would, “and I’m pretty sure that, unless you’re turning yourself in, I don’t want to know yours. What do you _really_ want, Snart?”

He’s charmed, despite himself. This boy… Is different, challenging, somehow suited to him in a way that he’d long thought impossible. Unknown territory, in a way. _Dangerous_ territory, in another. It’s time, he thinks, to tug the conversation firmly back into his corner, “tell me, _John_ \- are you of that certain class that consider it a fashion statement to entirely ignore their clocks?”

Ah, and _there_ is the advantage. John turns bright scarlet, immediately glances down at his hands. He’d lecture the boy on tells – but, really, he’s _pretty_ sure that he has enough problems as it is “…No.”

“So I suppose that you’re also not of that certain class who _hide_ their clocks?”

“... _No_.”

“And thus I suppose-?”

John’s jaw clenches, John’s eyes slide briefly closed. Before he knows it, and he’s usually _so_ quick off the mark, John has already moved – is already resting his bare wrist on the table with a certain kind of defiance. The line of zeros, small and dark and absolutely perfect against his pale skin, is more beautiful than he ever thought it’d be.

“Well,” he says, thoughtfully – and has to bite back another smile as he shifts to display the line of zeros on his own wrist. Two smiles in one day – wow, he’s practically becoming a _clown_ , “isn’t _that_ interesting.”

“I could tell you that it happened with somebody else. Before we met with a random person on the street, or midway through with one of the guards, or in the days when I was hunting you with one of your _victims_ ,” John bites his – ever so pretty, ever so red – lip, somehow resists the urge to yank his wrist back and act like their sudden understanding never happened “...But that would be a lie.”

“Big of you to admit,” he says carefully, and receives a bitten off snort for his troubles - _adorable_ \- from this sulky boy before him, “do you know what this means?”

“Of _course_ I know what it means!” John snaps, and then narrowly catches himself – breathes deeply as he watches. Controlled, or at least trying to be so – an admirable trait to have, “my parents were soulmates, my… Adoptive parents were also soulmates. I know exactly what the bond entails, what it forces on you, what it _takes_ from you.”

The air catches in his throat for a moment. A _terrible_ slip. He forces himself onwards but by the way John – his _boy_ \- is looking at him he doubts that it was quick enough, “Come now, _John_ , the soulmate bond is generally an entirely-“

“It can be,” John cuts him off tersely – and yet again he finds himself taken aback, _stunned_ to finally find that one person who seems capable of reading his mind, “but what if it goes wrong? And it can so _easily_ go wrong. What if your soulmate dies? Or rejects you, because they want to find their own path? What if your soulmate is completely wrong for you? What if they’re several years too young, or too old? What if your soulmate is incapable of love? What if you’re bound to love them forever, but they only want to hurt you? What _then_?”

He stares.

…It takes him a moment, to realize that the table is starting to creak under his hands, and even when he does it’s an effort to draw back. To centre himself, to take in deep breath after deep breath under the _ever_ so canny eyes of his- John, “interesting, you know my history. Work with the police in your civilian life, do you?”

“None of your business,” John hisses coldly, and glares at him. He summons up an impassive expression, in response, but he’s fully aware of how weak it must seem – he’s out of control here, the urge to cut his losses and run for the hills is _strong_ , “what are we going to _do_?”

An interesting question. And, given the situation, a relevant one. He takes in a deep breath, forces his hands to smooth across the table. When he looks up again John is watching him with an intensity that he should find disturbing, given the situation, but instead finds… No, probably not the time for that, “what do you want?”

“Not be permanently bound to a psychopathic supervillain who keeps killing people,” is John’s immediate answer – and he has to hide an inappropriate smirk at the _accuracy_ of it, “but, since that’s not an option… I have no idea.”

“Odd, that your speed doesn’t transfer to your thoughts,” he offers lowly, and receives a grunt for his trouble. He has the impression that there’s a story there. He also, unfortunately, has the impression that John isn’t about to share that story with him any time soon, “as far as I see it, we have a few options.”

“Oh?”

“Give in to our desires,” he offers smoothly, allows himself the very _slightest_ smirk at the idea, “indulge in several bouts of rough sex, and then try to build a relationship around that. Become an outlaw couple, devoted to each other and nobody else.”

The _look_ that John gives him is something to behold. He half wants to burst out laughing, half feels guilty. He settles for the midpoint between the two – a low smirk that should, hopefully, obscure any and all emotions bubbling beneath.

“Or, as you’re quite obviously not a fan of that plan, we could remove the problem. Kill ourselves, so that we never have to be with each other. Separate ourselves from the painful, endless, mortal plane and never have to deal with any of this again. An extreme path, I’ll admit, but one that has several-“

“Snart,” John offers flatly, somehow managing an improvement on the look that he sent before.

“ _Or_ , if you continue to disapprove…” He takes in another deep breath, spreads his hands across the table – it’s soothing, in a way. Just a pity that John’s gaze, so sharp and _determined_ , across from him is anything but, “we go on with our lives, as before. Acknowledge that we’re soulmates, but only to each other. Avoid each other as much as we can, _ignore_ each other as much as we can. Pretend, to the world in general, that we’re still waiting for our perfect matches to come along.”

John stares at him for another moment, flatly… And then slowly starts to nod. The disapproval, the entirely distracting determination, vanishes from his face – to be replaced by a calm sort of calculation that is worse, a ready sort of thought that almost looks _wrong_ on him, “do you honestly think that’ll work?”

“Perhaps,” he offers softly, and neatly sidesteps the thought that _he’s_ responsible for that – that he’s already started to corrupt this boy before him, this _innocent_ who wants to be a hero with every atom of his body. He’s never cared before, after all. Why should he start now? “But, then, perhaps not. It’s worth a try, at least, isn’t it?”

John smiles briefly, realizes, frowns again and gives yet another nod. He looks so young, so innocent, so _hopeful_ at this compromise – the first compromise that he’s ever offered to anybody, in all his life.

He doesn’t mention his scepticism, his doubt over such a solution _ever_ working. He only sits back, sighs under his breath, and watches his beautiful boy – his soulmate – for a long moment more.


End file.
